The soul of Spain

Just as happened in 2010, the soccer national team’s success at the 2026 World Cup has reignited something that seems to lie dormant in the Spanish collective consciousness and resurfaces only now and then: the embers of a fire that has not yet been completely put out, that is, our national pride, crystallized by the success of a group of players from every corner of Spain who feel they are part of the same team and united by a common goal.

However, a nation’s identity cannot be sustained solely by frivolous and sporadic sporting successes; rather, like a tree, it requires deep roots—that is, a past of which it can feel genuinely proud of and a shared destiny. It also needs a common trunk, which includes a common language, a religion, a set of ethics, shared customs, and a specific way of understanding society and the family. From that trunk, different branches will then grow, whose diversity beautifies the whole; but without common roots and a common trunk, what remains of the tree?

Well, Spain is a nation that for decades has been systematically denied its roots and its trunk, so it is no wonder that it has lost its sense of belonging, its identity, its self-esteem, and its soul.

Indeed, a nation’s roots are its history. In this sense, the two main milestones of our history —unanimously regarded as such well into the 20th century— are the Spanish Reconquista and the Conquest of America. These extraordinarily significant achievements form the foundation upon which our nation is built, and precisely because of this, they have been denigrated in recent decades by Spain’s enemies, who are well aware that if you destroy the foundations of a country’s identity, it will crumble like a house of cards.

The Reconquista

In 711, Spain suffered its first Muslim invasion under the Umayyad Caliphate. Within two decades, the North African troops managed to conquer the entire Peninsula except for the northern coast, and, in their advance, reached France, where they were abruptly and definitively halted by Charles Martel at the Battle of Poitiers (732). The French were luckier then than they are now.

From then on, the Muslim tide was followed by a Christian tide in the reconquest of all the lost territory until the recapture of Granada by the Catholic Kings in 1492. According to the American historian Stanley Payne, “there has been no other case in which, after a kingdom was conquered by any other foreign civilization—to be not only subjugated but profoundly transformed and acculturated by that foreign civilization— that kingdom was, only centuries later, fully reclaimed by the remnants of the conquered kingdom, which was not content merely to prevail over the invaders, but rather re-acculturated the entire territory, ultimately eradicating the attacking civilization”[1].

Undoubtedly, the Reconquista did not proceed in a linear fashion over time; it always involved a political dimension of power struggles among Christian kings—often over hereditary disputes—temporary alliances between Christians and Muslims to combat their respective enemies, and economic vassalage that replaced armed conflict and slowed the pace of the Reconquista. In fact, it had practically come to an end by 1270 following the capture of Seville by King Ferdinand III the Saint and the subsequent conquests by his son Alfonso X the Wise; yet the conquest of the Kingdom of Granada would be delayed for yet another two centuries.

Having said that, the backbone of that centuries-long national liberation movement known as the Reconquista was the rejection of a political-religious system (a theocracy) that was tremendously oppressive to the Christian population. In this sense, the Muslim occupation of Spain had far more shadows than lights. Although there was no systematic, bloody persecution of Christians—as would later occur in a savage manner during the Catholic genocide perpetrated by socialists, communists, and anarchists in the Civil War in the middle of the 20th century—the Christian majority was subjugated and discriminated against by the Muslim minority in power. This was the case from the very beginning, since the Umayyad dynasty, with its “inquisitions, beheadings, impalements, and crucifixions”[2], was no more tolerant or progressive than the subsequent Almoravid and Almohad rule, as is often claimed. Among other things, “under the Umayyads, Al-Andalus became a global center for the trade and distribution of slaves: very young female sex slaves, castrated male slaves to serve as eunuchs in the harems, children used as sex toys by the powerful…”[3]. All very civilized, as you can see.

In Al-Andalus, Christians were legally inferior: for example, if a Muslim killed a Christian, he was not to be punished by death, but if a Christian killed a free Muslim—even in self-defense—he was to be executed[4]. Likewise, Christian households paid far higher taxes than Muslim ones, and their religious activities were restricted. The construction of new churches was not permitted, and “the ringing of bells and any other activity outside the churches was prohibited.” Furthermore, “proselytizing activities directed at Muslims were punishable by death, and any Muslim who converted was also liable to capital punishment.” It should be added that, in the mid-9th century, “Jews and Christians were required to wear special clothing to indicate their religion, were not allowed to marry Muslim women, lacked equality in legal proceedings, and had to give up their seats whenever a Muslim wished to occupy them”[5]. Given all this, it is hardly surprising that the Arabist Serafín Fanjul described the political system in Al-Andalus as “apartheid”[6].

The myth of Al-Andalus

In light of the above, it should be clear that behind the attempt to create the rose-colored myth of “the coexistence of the three cultures” or “the chimera of Al-Andalus,” in the words of the Arabist Serafín Fanjul[7], lies a certain Christianophobia that would cast Christian society in a negative light in comparison to the supposedly superior Muslim civilization. Proof of this is that the era of tolerance is referred to by its propagandists only in relation to territories dominated by Islam, but never to those reconquered by Christianity, where religious tolerance toward Muslims—though very relative—was nevertheless far greater than the reverse.

The difference between Christian and Muslim societies was religious and cultural in nature. Therefore, rather than coexistence, it was a “clash of civilizations,” as the medieval historian Armando Besga rightly points out. Indeed, Christians and Muslims “differed in almost everything.” In family law, for instance, monogamy had nothing to do with polygamy. In fact, “Muslim marriage was not a ceremony at the mosque, but rather the sale and purchase of a woman—not to mention concubines, typically sex slaves, whose number was unlimited.” On the other hand, repudiation was very easy in Islam, whereas both concubinage and divorce are prohibited by Christianity. As this historian describes it, from a religious standpoint there were also profound eschatological differences, since it was not the same to wish to “be reunited with your spouse in the afterlife as it was to believe that that existence would be spent with houris, ‘those virgins (…) created for the sole purpose of bringing pleasure to the blessed men’”[8].

The medievalist Darío Fernández-Morera, who holds a Ph.D. from Harvard, also debunks the supposed “coexistence of the three cultures” in his detailed work The Myth of the Andalusian Paradise, based on primary sources from the period, whose explicit aim is “to challenge the widely held belief that it was a wonderful place of tolerance and diversity among the ‘three cultures’ under the benevolent supervision of enlightened Muslim rulers who, quite peacefully, replaced a preexisting, very impoverished Christian culture with a brilliant multicultural civilization”[9].

However, perhaps the definitive debate on Al-Andalus was the one that took place in the mid-20th century between the philologist Américo Castro and the historian and scholar Claudio Sánchez-Albornoz, which the latter won decisively with his work España: un enigma histórico (1956). That is why, in 1980, upon his return to Spain after serving as president of the Republic’s government in exile during Franco’s dictatorship, an elderly Sánchez-Albornoz, when asked about the matter, could not help but show his impatience: “I am accustomed to the stupid denial that the long centuries between the Battle of Covadonga and the surrender of Granada should not be called the Reconquista. Without the Reconquista, our modern history would be inexplicable. To Spain’s detriment, the Muslims entered it, and for our good, they were defeated and expelled.” And addressing the Andalusians on the eve of the creation of the regional Autonomous Community, he told them: “The reason why you, my Andalusian friends, will be able to enjoy the political autonomy you now desire is that the northern Christians conquered Andalusia—first the region of the Guadalquivir, and then Granada. In other words: it is only because you are the grandchildren of the Christian conquerors that you will be able to live autonomously within Spain”[10].

Well, the political geniuses of the Transition did just the opposite: they turned an obscure figure, Blas Infante (1885–1936)—who identified Andalusia with the myth of Al-Andalus and had converted to Islam in 1924—into a regional hero, and they selected the flag he designed (green in color, a symbol of Islam) as the banner of Andalusia.

The conquest of the Americas

For its part, with its many bright spots and some dark ones, the conquest of the Americas was a feat of such magnitude that the American historian Charles Lummis would describe it as “the greatest and most marvelous series of valiant exploits recorded in history”[11]. It was viewed in this light throughout the world until quite recently, when Marxist-inspired indigenism began to mythologize pre-Columbian civilizations and blame the Conquest—four hundred years later—for the colossal failures of some Latin American countries, such as Mexico.

This is a new phenomenon, for during the 1992 celebration of the 500th anniversary of the discovery of the Americas, there was no criticism of the Conquest from the Ibero-American presidents in attendance; quite the contrary: the tone of that gathering was so different from the nonsense we hear today that it is hard to believe only three decades have passed: “We gather five hundred years after the encounter of two worlds, during which time the bonds that allow us to recognize one another here as members of a community have been forged”[12] .

The unparalleled feat accomplished by Spain during the Conquest has several aspects. The first is nautical: for the first time in history, three ships ventured out to sea on a 3,600-nautical-mile voyage without knowing whether they would find land on the other side. By way of comparison, neither Bartolomé Díaz’s feat nor, of course, Erik the Red’s supposed 200-mile voyage from Iceland to Greenland (a walk in the park) carried the same merit.

The second feat is military, and it, too, has few parallels in history: commanding a few hundred brave men and aided by thousands of indigenous people fed up with the bloody Aztec tyranny, Cortés conquered a vast and powerful empire. Later, Pizarro would do the same to the great Inca civilization.

The third feat is civilizational. As I wrote some time ago, “the conquistadors went from the Europe of Aristotle, Seneca, St. Thomas Aquinas, Shakespeare, and Cervantes—of Michelangelo and St. Peter’s Basilica—to a culture that knew neither the plow nor the wheel (invented 6,000 years earlier) and whose architecture (which did not include the round arch), though monumental, paled in comparison to the Gothic cathedrals or the Greek and Roman temples built centuries and millennia earlier. But the greatest shock was that the Spaniards came from a society based on the rule of law and governed by Christian principles, and arrived at a society in which tens of thousands of people were sacrificed annually while the majority of the population lived in a state of semi-slavery. An eyewitness like Bernal Díaz del Castillo recounts how “they cut off arms, legs, and thighs and ate them just as we eat meat from the butcher in our country” »[13].

Spain’s civilizing work began immediately. “The first hospital founded in Mexico (the Hospital de Jesús) was built in 1521 and still remains in place; the first school, in 1523; the first university, in 1553; and the first Spanish-Nahuatl dictionary was published in 1555. When Mexico gained independence in 1821 after three centuries of Spanish rule, its per capita GDP was only 25% lower than Spain’s (having even surpassed it in earlier periods), its literacy rate was only slightly lower, and its life expectancy was very similar.

By way of comparison, in India, England set about plundering and looting everything it could without mingling with the native population or establishing a single school, hospital, or university until well into the 19th century. When India gained independence in 1947 after more than three centuries of British rule, it remained an extremely poor and illiterate country: its per capita GDP was one-tenth that of England (90% lower), only 12% of its inhabitants could read and write (compared to 95% of the English), and its life expectancy was 32 years, compared to 69 in England”[14].

However, it is the fourth achievement of the Conquest that can be considered by far the most significant. Indeed, with the help of the priests and friars who accompanied them, the Spanish conquistadors brought the beautiful Christian religion to a society that worshipped gods “whose temples were ossuaries overrun by stench and flies, and whose wrath had to be appeased by the sacrifice of virgins, children, and prisoners—whose hearts were torn out to smear the walls with blood, and whose corpses were then hurled from the building to be devoured”[15].

The soul of Spain is Catholic

But the most significant aspect of our history is that it is inextricably linked to the Catholic faith. It should therefore come as no surprise that, in his welcoming remarks to Pope Leo XIV, King Philip mentioned this crucial fact: “The Catholic faith is deeply rooted in our country, and without it, our history and our culture could not be understood.” This should help us understand the symbolic importance of the king himself attending the Easter Mass—the most important Catholic celebration of the year—and the floral offering to St. James, the patron saint of Spain.

Indeed, Spain has been Catholic since the very beginning of Christianity, thanks to the preaching of the apostles James and Paul. Following the first Councils of Toledo, King Recaredo converted in 587 A.D., and shortly thereafter, most of the Visigothic ruling class followed suit. Since then—almost 1,500 years ago—it can be said that Spain has been Catholic.

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that the bond between Spain and the Catholic faith formed the core of St. John Paul II’s first address on Spanish soil in 1982: “I have come to meet a Christian community that dates back to apostolic times (…), a land that was the focus of St. Paul’s evangelizing efforts; a land under the patronage of St. James (…); which facilitated the conversion of the Visigothic peoples to the faith; which experienced the Reconquista; which discovered and evangelized the Americas; which illuminated science from Alcalá and Salamanca, and theology at Trent.” And he added: “I am drawn here by an admirable history (…): thanks above all for that unparalleled evangelizing activity [through which] the largest portion of the Church of Christ today speaks and prays to God in Spanish. Following my apostolic journeys, especially through Latin America and the Philippines, I want to say: Thank you, Spain (…)! That history, despite its shortcomings and human errors, is worthy of every admiration and appreciation”[16] .

Two decades earlier, during the commemoration of the 19th centenary of the Apostle Paul’s arrival in Spain, Pope Saint Paul VI had also expressed his gratitude to Spain for bringing the faith “to distant worlds, as attested by the cluster of nations that have received this gift from God through your language,” recalling that “unshakable milestone in human history: that of reaching every corner of the globe and erasing the ancient boundaries of the world”[17]. Both Paul VI and John Paul II understood that Spain had a Catholic soul and recognized the crucial importance of defending the legacy of the Reconquista and, above all, that of the Conquest of the Americas—with fidelity to the truth, but without complexes or present-day, untimely apologies. It is high time that we, too, learn to do the same.

And yet, the dominant cultural climate today has made us forget all of this. Proof of this is that Pope Leo’s first speech during his recent trip to Spain fell into the mythologization of Al-Andalus and, even more surprisingly, omitted any mention of the Conquest of the Americas, even though, thanks to the evangelizing work of Spain, “herald of the Gospel and champion of Catholicism,” in the words of St. John XXIII, nearly half of the world’s Catholics today pray to God in our language[18].

Reclaiming our pride in being Spanish

Spanish identity has been undermined for decades by some of our foreign rivals, by regional separatist movements, and by the successful social engineering carried out by that segment of the Masonic-style Left that hates the Catholic faith—which inevitably leads to anti-patriotism. This social engineering, consolidated by that false right-wing party called the PP, seeks, above all, to destroy any vestige of our cultural identity and, ultimately, the Catholic soul of Spain.

Undoubtedly, this negative view of our history also reflects a pendulum-like reaction to the fact that the Franco dictatorship embellished certain historical events as the core of its National Catholicism, although, in all fairness, I must say that the biased version of our history defended by the Franco regime was far more truthful and respectful of historical facts than the “Himalaya of falsehoods” (Besteiro dixit) that the dominant political ideology today insists we believe.

It is in our hands to reverse this process. We can fan these embers and rekindle that inner fire of our national identity that still burns within us—without exclusionary chauvinism, but also without complexes. This may not be a political struggle, but rather a cultural, moral, and spiritual one; yet one thing must be clear: the very existence of Spain depends on it.